Wolves in the Trenches
by E350
Summary: It is 1917 on the Western Front, and Corporal Tommy Pickles is on a routine night watch. Something else, however, is prowling the trench. Oneshot horror experiment. WARNING: Character Death.


I try to write horror and suspence...and fail. Read and review!**

* * *

**

**Wolves in the Trenches**

_January 1917.  
Verdun, France.  
The Western Front._

It was a quiet night, for once. The vaunted German Army was recovering from the failed attack on Verdun, in which 434,000 had been killed or wounded, and the only sounds were of distant artillery fire and the occasional gunshot.

The soldiers of the German Army were now retreating to the mighty Hindenburg Line of defences to the rear, but some stayed behind to make sure the French didn't notice any funny goings on and attack when they were weak.

The rain, mud and attrition of battle were beginning to take their toll on the Kaiser's men, both physically and mentally. Trench foot, a serious disease that often caused the foot to swell and become infected, was very common. So too was the possibility of having your head knocked off by a French mortar or sniper. The loud noises and fear caused many men, particularly the newer and younger ones, to slowly crack.

Last week, a man had lost it and charged the French lines single-handedly. It was suicide. The other men tried to stop him, only to be threatened by the trooper, who had clearly lost it. Reluctantly, they had let him go…

Nobody liked to think about that.

Corporal Tommy Pickles had been in this godforsaken trench for two months. He had fought since the beginning of the war. He was now slowly becoming indifferent to the suffering and sound of the trenches – he'd decided that if he thought about it too much, he'd go crazy.

He had been placed on night watch by his commanding officer, Leutnant Eustace Strytch, who Tommy suspected didn't like him much. Every night, he was put on night watch, and he was getting sick of it.

The trench was dark, and rain was pelting down on him so hard, it may as well have been snowing. It was so bad, his hair was getting soaked through his leather _Pickelhaube_ – the distinctive spiked helmet that was now being replaced by steel designs, good riddance.

Ahead of him, he saw a soldier, holding his gun as if he expected to see action soon and shuddering in his boots.

"Hey!" Tommy called, "What's going on?"

The soldiers eyes widened, and he yelled back; "Shut up! They can hear you!"

Tommy recognised that voice. It was Private Carl Wheezer, a large, young soldier who was easily fooled by gossip and superstition. A soldier like that should never have been conscripted.

"What is it Carl?" asked Timmy, grinning a little to calm him down.

"I saw it," replied Carl, his voice quivering, "It's a werewolf."

Tommy suppressed the urge to laugh.

"Carl, there's no such thing as werewolves," he reassured, "You probably just saw an escaped dog."

"B-but the sergeant said they…"

"Don't listen to what Francis says," warned Tommy, "He's just trying to get to you. Now come on, I'll take you back to…"

He heard a panting and turned on his heel.

A short soldier with large buckteeth and brown hair was limping towards them, breathing very oddly. He was wearing a very different uniform to the field grey of a German – in fact, he wore the brown uniform and helmet of the French Army.

Tommy aimed his Mauser rifle and barked an order; "You! Hands up!"

"Get away," the Frenchman quivered.

"I said hands up!" snapped Tommy, more forcefully this time, "Name and rank, now!"

"Private Timmy Turner," panted Timmy, "Now run, before it's too late."

"Carl, take his weapon," ordered Tommy.

Carl did not reply, instead stammering; "H-he's the werewolf. I-I saw him…"

"That's ridiculous," sighed Tommy, "For the last time, there are no werewolves…"

"He's right," said Timmy, "I can't…resist the change…much longer…run…now…"

"Oh, this is ridiculous," moaned Tommy, "Put your hand u-"

He stopped.

Fur was crawling up Timmy's arms, as his mouth and nose formed into a muzzle. His teeth were sharpening, and his spine changed, forcing him on all fours. The cracking noises and pants of pain were too much – Tommy shut his eyes.

When the noise stopped, Tommy opened them again to find a giant snarling wolf before them.

"Carl, warn the Leutnant," he stammered.

Carl nodded, and ran screaming.

"_He warned you_," the wolf said in Timmy's voice, "_You should have listened._"

Tommy pulled back the bolt on the rifle and fired.

The bullet did nothing. The wolf seemed to grin, if it were possible to do so through a muzzle, before leaping at him…

* * *

The next morning, a small French patrol walked across No Mans Land and into a German trench without firing a shot. Its leader, Sergeant James Isaac Neutron, soon returned to HQ, reporting with disgust what he had found.

A platoon sized unit of German troops had been ripped to shreds by…something, leaving mauled, half eaten remains. The Frenchmen set up in the once enemy trench, and gathered anything of use.

No-one paid notice to a small, leather Pickelhaube, lying on the ground, apparently without an owner…


End file.
